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Viren Sekker in: Parchment and Flames
Viren could not sleep.
This was, by and large, not unusual for the Sith; since childhood, nightmares had always been the norm of his nights, twisting through his head like tormented visions of futures that could be, or pasts that still plagued him. Tonight was no different… and he knew sleep would not come back for some hours, not until the racing heart in his chest had slowed.
Rising from the soft silk sheets, he was careful not to disturb Tse’kira - not that it would have mattered. She slept like a clubbed seal, his polar opposite in that regard, and stirred only slightly as his weight left the mattress.
He didn’t bother dressing, but stepped light-footed through the corridor of their shared apartment; the only sound was the white-noise whoosh of rain against the windows from Dromund Kaas’ perpetual storms.
Viren knew what it was that had woken him, knew what memories were even now gnawing deep at the back of his head.
Karsija.
The single word rose to the surface of Viren’s consciousness, a bright shard of pain that embedded itself into every thought. At the time he had first spoken it, the word had simply been a matter of practicality; a term of address for one senior, yet not truly above. A placeholder. Somehow now that meaning was forever lost beneath the others that had accumulated on it.
His feet carried him without thinking into his study, past the half-finished painting set against its eazel, past the rows of leather-bound books whose petrichor scent filled the room. Seating himself behind the desk, he slid the top drawer open. Nestled within were his Collection - not ‘collection’, always ‘Collection’, the capitalisation earned by its value. Four lightsabers, laid out in neat formation, and several lightsaber-crystals wrapped in cloth, each faintly glowing with inner colours.
Viren knew which of them was calling to him, why he had opened the drawer. Of all the four weapons, the first was the simplest; an almost nondescript black metal cylinder with a single activator switch, etched faintly with criss-crossed stylised lines. Taking it in his hands, Viren felt the oh-so-familiar weight and heft of it… letting it sit in his palm, he slowly turned it this way and that.
“This was given to me by my Master upon my ascension. I now give it to you, Apprentice. You have earned it.”
Whether these were the actual words he had spoken, Viren could no longer recall; but the memory of his voice remained firm in his mind, eloquent and well-spoken, menacing in its playfulness.
At one time Viren had thought to give this weapon to an apprentice of his own. Now he had two, and the weapon remained his… perhaps now it would be forever. Handed down from Sith Soti to… him. And then to Viren. The weapon was a part of a legacy that was… broken.
Suddenly he could no longer look at the hilt. Its ice-cold surface felt unbearable on his skin, its weight monumental, and he thrust it back into the desk so roughly he felt the drawer’s bearings come loose from the force of its sudden closure. Something to fix later.
Viren knew he would not sleep. It was the middle of the night, he was exhausted, his limbs heavy and mind tired, but his emotions gave him energy in the same way they gave him power. Resigned… he drew a sheet of paper towards himself, uncapped a pen, and set the nib against the white sheet to write.
He paused, nib hovering over the page. He could simply stop there. Something urged him not to.
With a final fluid gesture, Viren signed his full name to the page, and beneath it, Zevasa. He sat in silence for a long while, watching the ink dry across the several pages he had written, reading his words over again; the parts crossed out, the parts where the shaking of his hands had flecked ink across the words, the parts where the sharp nib of the pen had nearly torn its way through the page in his rage and frustration.
Methodically he gathered up every page, shuffling them together, and took them to the mantle. With one final exhalation, he let the pages slide from his hand into the open fireplace - and ignited it with a touch of lightning from his fingertips.
The words burned away into nothing, never to be read or seen by another. As they burned… Viren felt a curious weight lift itself from his chest. It was not gone completely, he still felt the lingering gravity of its power, but no longer would it control him.
A soft flutter in the Force and a tiny sound made him turn. Amanda had awoken.
It was time for him to set aside being a son. That had never truly suited Viren. Now he had to be a father; he had to do for others what Valeus had done for him, in life and one day in death.
He left, not bothering to turn back to look at the pages - the flame spread gradually to encompass them completely, burning its way through the dry parchment until all that remained was ash.
Viren could not sleep.
This was, by and large, not unusual for the Sith; since childhood, nightmares had always been the norm of his nights, twisting through his head like tormented visions of futures that could be, or pasts that still plagued him. Tonight was no different… and he knew sleep would not come back for some hours, not until the racing heart in his chest had slowed.
Rising from the soft silk sheets, he was careful not to disturb Tse’kira - not that it would have mattered. She slept like a clubbed seal, his polar opposite in that regard, and stirred only slightly as his weight left the mattress.
He didn’t bother dressing, but stepped light-footed through the corridor of their shared apartment; the only sound was the white-noise whoosh of rain against the windows from Dromund Kaas’ perpetual storms.
Viren knew what it was that had woken him, knew what memories were even now gnawing deep at the back of his head.
Karsija.
The single word rose to the surface of Viren’s consciousness, a bright shard of pain that embedded itself into every thought. At the time he had first spoken it, the word had simply been a matter of practicality; a term of address for one senior, yet not truly above. A placeholder. Somehow now that meaning was forever lost beneath the others that had accumulated on it.
His feet carried him without thinking into his study, past the half-finished painting set against its eazel, past the rows of leather-bound books whose petrichor scent filled the room. Seating himself behind the desk, he slid the top drawer open. Nestled within were his Collection - not ‘collection’, always ‘Collection’, the capitalisation earned by its value. Four lightsabers, laid out in neat formation, and several lightsaber-crystals wrapped in cloth, each faintly glowing with inner colours.
Viren knew which of them was calling to him, why he had opened the drawer. Of all the four weapons, the first was the simplest; an almost nondescript black metal cylinder with a single activator switch, etched faintly with criss-crossed stylised lines. Taking it in his hands, Viren felt the oh-so-familiar weight and heft of it… letting it sit in his palm, he slowly turned it this way and that.
“This was given to me by my Master upon my ascension. I now give it to you, Apprentice. You have earned it.”
Whether these were the actual words he had spoken, Viren could no longer recall; but the memory of his voice remained firm in his mind, eloquent and well-spoken, menacing in its playfulness.
At one time Viren had thought to give this weapon to an apprentice of his own. Now he had two, and the weapon remained his… perhaps now it would be forever. Handed down from Sith Soti to… him. And then to Viren. The weapon was a part of a legacy that was… broken.
Suddenly he could no longer look at the hilt. Its ice-cold surface felt unbearable on his skin, its weight monumental, and he thrust it back into the desk so roughly he felt the drawer’s bearings come loose from the force of its sudden closure. Something to fix later.
Viren knew he would not sleep. It was the middle of the night, he was exhausted, his limbs heavy and mind tired, but his emotions gave him energy in the same way they gave him power. Resigned… he drew a sheet of paper towards himself, uncapped a pen, and set the nib against the white sheet to write.
| Valeus Vexal Horuset is dead. He is dead and writing this will not bring him back. So why am I writing this? Why do I even care? |
|---|
| It is impossible to deny the attraction between a master and an apprentice. I have seen it myself now that I have my own; I see the devotion with which my own apprentices serve me, fresh though I may be, and I recognise the devotion which I had to my first master there too. I pledged myself to him far too early. Before the trials, before he was ready and before I was either. It was the best decision I could have made at the time. Others had more experience, more power and influence to offer… Valeus was closer to my own station than that of any of them, of any of the others who courted me as their Apprentice. I could have waited, changed my mind; I considered Sith Sarias, I was viewed by Sith Soti, and at one time I could have changed my allegiance and stayed with Sith Narazri. I did none of these things. At the time I convinced myself that it was to my benefit, that my reasoning was in aid of greater goals. Apprentice to a Horuset, to fulfil the promise I had made to my cousin. Apprentice to a Sith too inexperienced to see if he was leading me, or if I was leading him. It was a poor fit, of course. Looking back there was no way it could have been anything else. The betrayal he dealt to me on Dubrillion still stings in my mind, still raises within me the desire for revenge that I have nurtured so long now; to have been set aside by one that I respected so much for the sake of one I still have no respect for at all. The maligning suffered by Zartilda and I then has shaped us into better Sith than we might have been otherwise. So maybe that is what I am writing about? What I owe to the dead? A tally list of all the things Tarimra - Values - Karsija - did that turned me into the Sith I am today. From him I learned the value of debts. The power that can come of making a deal and seeing that people keep their word. I have accumulated as many of these debts as Valeus did while he was alive, and though I have chosen to create them and use them differently, each time I strike a deal I am reminded of the one who taught me how. The first step I ever took as a Sorcerer, looking out over a wasted battle-ground on Plooma, was with Valeus watching. I could have died. He could have simply stood by and watched as I, a stupid Acolyte, immolated myself with the Dark Side because of a mistake; but he showed me how to control it, how to direct the power and keep myself from dying. His death is now a memory I will draw that power from, the pain of loss. It’s strange to think that I think of it as a loss. I have contemplated the death of Valeus Vexal Tarimra Horuset over and over in my mind. He branded my wife on Dubrillion, he spurned me as an Apprentice, he held me back and belittled and punished me, he has been a thorn in my side for years! SO WHY NOT KILL HIM? WHY AM I NOT HAPPY HE’S DEAD? BECAUSE I WANTED TO KILL HIM? OR SOMETHING ELSE? I keep returning to these questions. I nearly tear the parchment as I write them, pen to paper, archaic like he was. Could I have killed Tarimra? With assistance, yes. Would I have benefitted? As recent events have shown, yes. But in the end I have come to realise that the emotions blazing within me like the phoenix’s final moments are nothing more than my own feelings of inadequacy reflected back at me!!! I could no more kill him than I could my own father. My father died when I was fifteen years old and since that day I have seen him everywhere. He is in the way I hold my lightsaber, he is in the way I speak to Acolytes, he is in my reflection at the centre of my daughter’s eyes. And now also, he is in the words ‘All Magic Has A Price’. Now he is in the preparations I make before I go to battle, he is in the ink and parchment I keep in my desk, and the lightsaber I will never give to an apprentice. I hated my father. I hated Valeus Vexal Horuset. Perhaps that is why the two are somehow the same in my mind. What else could you call someone who pushes you to be better? Who will not accept you at your weakest? I recently had to confront the fact that there are those within Horuset who think of me as a father, too. Apprentices, Acolytes. Perhaps soon, even Sith. Perhaps it is a cycle we are doomed to repeat? To become our fathers? So which shall I become? The man who raised me or the man who made me? The Butcher, or the Lorekeeper? Perhaps neither. Perhaps both. In the end the last thought is the only one that matters. Valeus, my mentor, Karsija iv nuyak Qo. You died as you lived: Trying to outshine the Horuset Sun. For a brief moment, old friend, you succeeded. The greatest sorrow is that the moment was your last. |
|---|
Methodically he gathered up every page, shuffling them together, and took them to the mantle. With one final exhalation, he let the pages slide from his hand into the open fireplace - and ignited it with a touch of lightning from his fingertips.
The words burned away into nothing, never to be read or seen by another. As they burned… Viren felt a curious weight lift itself from his chest. It was not gone completely, he still felt the lingering gravity of its power, but no longer would it control him.
A soft flutter in the Force and a tiny sound made him turn. Amanda had awoken.
It was time for him to set aside being a son. That had never truly suited Viren. Now he had to be a father; he had to do for others what Valeus had done for him, in life and one day in death.
He left, not bothering to turn back to look at the pages - the flame spread gradually to encompass them completely, burning its way through the dry parchment until all that remained was ash.
* * *
In Memory of Sith Valeus Vexal Tarimra Horuset
2019-2022
‘All Magic Has Its Price.’
